MR. BROWN AT HOME.
That the managing clerk of Mr. Bede Greatorex was anything but a
steady man, his worst enemy could not have said. Mr. Brown's conduct
was irreproachable, his industry indefatigable. At the office to the
very minute of opening, quitting it always last at night, occupying
all his spare time at home in writing, except that necessary to be
consumed in sleep; and of habits so moderate, that even Roland Yorke,
with all his experiences of Port Natal deprivations, would have
marvelled at them, it might have been surmised that Mr. Brown had set
in to acquire a modest fortune. The writing he did at home was paid
for. It was so thoroughly to be depended on for correctness and swift
completion, that Greatorex and Greatorex were glad to give it to him,
and kept it a tacit secret from the other clerks. For Mr. Brown did
not care that it should be known in the office, lest he should lose
his standing. To carry copying home for remuneration, might have been
deemed _infra dig_. for the manager.
For his breakfast he took a hard-boiled egg, or a sausage, or a
herring, as might be; tea, and bread. At dinner-time, the middle of
the day, his food did not differ from the above, a glass of beer being
substituted for the tea. He invariably called it his luncheon, saying
he dined out later; and hurried over it to get to his writing. In the
evening he had tea again, butter, bread, and one or other of the
afore-mentioned luxuries, with radishes or some light garden
production of that kind which might happen to be in season. Shrewd
Mrs. Jones, after a few days' experience of her lodger's habits,
came to the private conclusion, that the daily dinner out had place
only in fable. On Sundays he dined at home, openly, upon potatoes and
meat--generally a piece of steak. The maid found out that he blacked
his boots over-night, keeping his brushes and blacking-bottle locked
up; put on but one clean shirt a week, with false wristbands and
fronts the rest of the time. Given to arrive at rapid decisions, Mrs.
Jones set all this down, not to parsimony, but to needful economy, for
which she concluded there must be some good cause; and honoured his
self-denial.
Police-officer Butterby, having scraped acquaintance (of course by
chance) with the landlord where Mr. Brown had previously lived,
gathered sundry details over a pipe, into his capacious ears. The
house, situated in an obscure quarter, was let out in rooms--chambers
it might be said, of a poor and humble grade, with a wide, dark,
common staircase of stone. One lodger did not interfere with another;
and all the landlord and his wife had to do was to take the weekly
money. Mr. Brown had been with them between three and four years, the
landlord said; was most steady and respectable. Gentleman Brown they
always called him. They did _his_ room, though most of the others did
their own. Never went to theatres, or smoking-places; never, in short,
spent a sixpence in waste, saved up what he could for his mother and
sick sister in the country, who were dependent on him. Had not the
least idea why he left; might have knocked him (the landlord) down
with a feather when Gentleman Brown tapped at his door one evening
late, saying business was calling him away on the morrow or next day,
and put down a full week's rent in lieu of notice; was the best and
most regular man that ever lodged in a decent house; should be right
down glad to have him back again.
A good character, certainly; as Mr. Butterby could but mentally
acknowledge; steady, self-denying, working always to support a mother
and sick sister! He had no cause to dispute it; having come on a
fishing expedition rather than a suspicious one.
Mr. Brown sat working tonight in his room at Mrs. Jones's, the evening
of the day mentioned in the last chapter: a shaded lamp was at his
elbow; his spectacles, which he always took off in writing, lay on the
table beside him. The room was of fair size for its situation; a
folding screen standing cornerwise concealed the small bed. A high
bureau stood opposite the fireplace, near it a dwarf-cupboard of
mahogany with a flat top, which served for a side-table. Mr. Brown had
drawn the larger table to the window, that he might catch the last
light of the summer's evening. He sat sideways; the right hand cuff of
his worn coat turned up. Out of doors he appeared as a gentleman;
indoors he was economically careful in dress, as in other things.
A light tap at the door; followed by the entrance of Miss Rye. He rose
at once, and turned down the coat-cuff. She came to bring a letter
that the postman had just left. Never, unless when forced to it by the
very rare absence of the maid, did Miss Rye make her appearance in his
room. The servant was out this evening; and Mrs. Jones had handed her
the letter with a decisive command that might not be disregarded.
"Take it in, Alletha."
She put the letter on the table, and was turning out without a word.
Mr. Brown went to the door, and held it close while he spoke, that the
sound of voices might not be heard outside.
"What is the reason that you shun me, Miss Rye? Is it well? Is it
kind?"
She suddenly lifted her hand to her bosom, as if a spasm took her, and
the little colour that was in her face faded out of it.
"It is well. As to kind--you know all that is over."
"I do not know it. I neither admit it, nor its necessity. Civility at
least might remain. What has been my motive, do you suppose, in coming
here, but to live under the same roof that shelters you? Not to renew
the past, as it once existed between us; I do not ask or wish it; but
to see you now and then, to exchange an unemotional, calm word with
you once in a way."
"I cannot stay. Please to let me pass, sir!"
"The old place, where I lodged so long, suited me, for it was private;
and I need privacy, as you know," he continued, paying no attention to
her request. "It was also reasonable enough to satisfy even me. Here I
pay nearly double; here I am more liable to be seen by those who might
do me harm. But I have braved it all for you. Perhaps the former
friendship--I do not wish to offend even by a name, you see, Miss
Rye--was a terrible mistake for you, but I at least have been true to
it."
"The best and kindest thing you can do for me, sir, is to go back to
your late lodgings."
"I shall stay in these. You told me, in the only interview I have held
with you since I came here, that I was a man of crime. I admit it. But
criminals have affections as well as other people. You are _cruel_ to
me, Alletha Rye."
"It is you who are cruel," she returned, losing in emotion the
matter-of-fact reserve, as between waitress and lodger, she had been
studying to maintain. "You must know the pain your presence brings me.
Mrs. Jones has invited you to dine with her on Sunday next, I hear;
let me implore of you not to come in."
"Off a piece of boiled beef," he rejoined in a plain, curt tone, as if
her manner and words were hardening him. "The offer is too good a one
to be refused."
"Then I shall absent myself from table."
"Don't drive me quite wild, Alletha Rye. You have me in your power:
the only one in London who has--so far as I hope and believe. I'd
almost as soon you went and gave me in charge."
"Who is cruel now?" she breathed. "You know that you can trust me; you
know that I would rather forfeit my own life than put yours in
jeopardy: but I take shame to myself in saying it. It is just this,"
she added, struggling with her agitation, "you are safe with me, but
you are not welcome."
"I told you somewhat of my secrets in our last interview: I would have
told you more, but you would not listen--why I am living as I do,
trying to atone for the miserable sins of the past----"
"Atone!"
"Yes, it is well to catch me up. One of them, at least, never can be
atoned for. It lies heavier on my mind than it does on yours. If----"
The sharp voice of Mrs. Jones, from above stairs, demanding what was
the matter with Alletha's ears, that they did not hear the door-bell,
put a stop to the interview. A hectic spot shone on her cheeks as she
hastened to answer it.
The red glow had given place to a ghastly whiteness when she came in
again. Mr. Brown had already settled to his writing and turned back
his cuff. She closed the door of her own accord, and went up to him;
he stood gazing in surprise at her face. Its every lineament expressed
terror. The lips were drawn and cold; the eyes wild. However bad might
have been the contamination of his touch, he could not help taking her
trembling hands. She suffered it, entwining her lingering fingers
within his.
"What has happened?" he asked in a whisper.
"That man has come; Butterby, the detective officer from Helstonleigh.
He says he must see Mr. Brown--you. Heaven have mercy on us! Has the
blow fallen at last?"
"There's nothing to fear. I expected a call from him. He only knows me
as Mr. Brown, manager to Greatorex and Greatorex. Let him come in."
"I have shut him up in Mrs. Jones's parlour."
"You must go and send him to me. I am but your lodger to him, you
know. Get a little colour into your face first."
A minute or two and Mr. Butterby was introduced, amicably telling Miss
Rye, that, to judge by appearances, London did not appear to agree
with her. Mr. Brown, composedly writing, put down his pen in the
middle of a word, and rose to receive him.
It was a chatty interview. The great man was on his agreeable manners,
and talked of many things. He made some fatherly enquiries after the
welfare of Mr. Hurst; observing that some of them country blades liked
their fling when in London, but he fancied young Hurst was tolerably
steady. Mr. Brown quietly said he had no reason to suppose him
otherwise.
"You have been from thirteen to fourteen years with the Greatorexes, I
think," remarked the detective.
Mr. Brown laughed. "From three to four."
"Oh, I made a mistake. And before you came to them?"
"With a solicitor, now deceased. Mr. Greatorex can tell you anything
of him you wish to know. He had me direct from him."
"Me wish to know? Not a bit. Who on earth is it walking about
overhead? His boots have been on the go ever since I came in."
"It must be Mr. Ollivera. He does walk in his rooms sometimes."
"I should say his mind was restless. Thinking always of his brother,
they say. It was a curious case, that, take it for all in all. Ever
heard the particulars, Mr. Brown?"
"Yes, Mr. Greatorex once related them to me. The young men in the
office get speaking of it."
"Ah, they had all something to do with Counsellor Myers, so to say.
Jenner was the clerk in chambers. Hurst's father was the surgeon
called in at the death; Yorke was in Port Natal at the time, but his
folks knew him. Talkative young fellows, all the lot; like gossip,
I'll be bound, better than work. I'll answer that one of 'em does--Mr.
Roland Yorke."
A smile crossed the manager's face at thought of Roland's work. "When
I hear them begin to speak of the late Mr. Ollivera's death, I stop it
at once," he remarked. "Jenner is very much given to it, never
considering whose office he is in. The name of a man who has committed
self-destruction, cannot be pleasant to his relations."
"As to self-destruction," spoke Mr. Butterby, with a nod, "I don't say
it was that in Ollivera's case. I don't say it was not. There's only
two people have held out against it; and they've been obstinate enough
in the cause for two thousand. Parson Ollivera, and the young woman in
this house, Alletha Rye."
"On the other hand," observed the clerk, "some are as positive that he
did commit it. Mrs. Jones for one, Mr. Bede Greatorex for another.
They possess the same knowledge of the details that the other two do,
and are certainly as able of conclusion."
Jonas Butterby opened his mouth, as if to let in a whiff of air to his
teeth, for he closed it again without speaking. In the heat of
argument his usual cautious reticence had for once nearly failed him,
and he all but betrayed his private opinion--that Bede Greatorex had
grown to suspect Godfrey Pitman.
"Who told you that Bede Greatorex holds to that view, Mr. Brown?"
"It is well known he does. I have heard him say so myself."
"He _did_, and no mistake," nodded the shrewd detective, who, upon
reflection, saw no reason why he should not speak out. "He made as
sure that it was suicide, at the time, as you are that that's a inkpot
afore you. But if he has not drawed round a bit to the contrary
opinion, my name's not Jonas Butterby. Bede Greatorex, in his innard
breast, has picked up doubts of the missing man, that worthy Pitman."
Mr. Brown got up to do something to the window-blind, and the peculiar
look that crossed his face--not a smile, not a spasm of pain, not a
sharp contraction of fear, but something of all three--was thereby
hidden from his visitor. He was calm enough when he came back again.
"Did Mr. Bede Greatorex tell you so?"
"Not he. He let a word drop or two, and I could see at once the man
was on his mind. But that's not our business, Mr. Brown, neither must
it be made so, you understand. What I want to talk about, is the
cheque affair. Let's go over the particulars quietly together."
Not so very quietly to begin with. A swinging-open of the street door
as if the house itself were being pushed back; a stamping of feet in
the passage; a shouting out to everybody--Mrs. J., Miss Rye, the
servant Betsey--to bring him hot water, announced the arrival at home
of Mr. Roland Yorke.